Letter from Hong Kong Chapter 93

Only after Ying Yin had finished a cup of mulled wine did Li Shan finally make his belated appearance.

With the thaw setting in, the roads had turned to mud. The moment Li Shan stepped inside, he left a trail of damp footprints behind him.

“It really is early spring,” he remarked. “Snow’s giving way to rain now.”

So it had started drizzling outside. No wonder, beneath the lights, both his windbreaker and his hair were dusted with a fine layer of glistening raindrops.

Shang Lu poured him a cup of raw pu’er tea. “The snow’s going to melt quickly over the next few days. If we don’t get the shots we need now, we’ll have to wait until next winter’s snow season.”

Li Shan looked entirely unhurried. “We wrap the day after tomorrow night. Late comes the snow as dusk descends – no rush. Let’s drink first.”

Then he turned to Ying Yin with a grin. “So you’ve already gotten started.”

Ying Yin cradled a fresh cup between her hands, warming her fingers.

“Just a little,” she promised the director. “Helps me sleep.”

Under the lights, her eyes were bright and crystal clear, her pupils looking rounder than usual.

Li Shan saw straight through her. “You already look drunk.”

“No way,” Ying Yin declared with absolute certainty. “I’ve only just begun.”

Shang Lu shot her a sidelong glance. This woman truly had no grasp of her own alcohol tolerance.

He’d shared drinks with Ying Yin on several occasions. As far as enthusiasm for drinking went, she absolutely deserved to be called a lush – every single time, she’d insist on another glass. As for her actual capacity, a single bottle of red wine was about her limit. And as for how she behaved when drunk…

Forget it. One could only evaluate someone’s drinking manners if they actually had any.

Shang Lu would never forget one particular evening when, after polishing off two bottles of red wine, this young lady had spent a full hour and a half crying, laughing, making things up, and weaving increasingly elaborate fantasies while trash-talking a certain director to Ke Yu.

That director happened to be Shang Lu himself. And he had been sitting perfectly sober, wide awake, on the other end of her sofa the entire time.

“I’m telling you…” she slurred. “He’s… not normal! You’ve got to be careful…”

Ke Yu had been responding on complete autopilot all night, but at those words, a bewildered question mark finally appeared on his face.

“No, no, no – not that. I mean… mentally… mentally not normal…”

“…”

“Though… maybe that isn’t normal either? Who knows… Oh, right, you’re Ke Yu. You’d know…”

She squinted at him with drunken seriousness.

“So… is he normal in that department?”

That night finally came to an end with the closing theme from The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie playing in the background.

Without realizing it, the wineglass was gently taken from her hand.

Ying Yin looked at the man beside her, her thoughts lagging a beat behind.

Shang Shao set her stemmed glass down, pinning it lightly against the table with two fingers as he said, almost absentmindedly, “Don’t drink so fast.”

The way he played hard to get was so effortless that no one could see through it.

Ying Yin obediently asked, “Then… can I finish it later?”

The corner of Shang Shao’s lips lifted almost imperceptibly.

“That,” he said, “you’ll have to ask the director.”

So Ying Yin turned to Li Shan with hopeful, pleading eyes.

Completely unaware that he’d just been made the official authority – and convenient fall guy – Li Shan cleared his throat and relented. “Your scene isn’t until three tomorrow afternoon. A few glasses won’t hurt. You’ve worked incredibly hard these past few months.”

“Mhm, mhm.”

Ying Yin nodded eagerly, her gaze drifting back to the cup of fruit-scented mulled wine sitting beside Shang Shao. Without thinking, she licked her lips.

Wine really was delicious.

The gathering was both a casual get-together and a working discussion.

Shang Lu brought up an idea that had flashed through his mind earlier that day on set. As the wine flowed, the concept gradually unfolded, gathering substance and detail until it became something tangible – a story that could actually be made.

“The female lead is absolutely critical. She’s the chain linking the forward and reverse narratives. She has to have a face the audience instinctively trusts. Before the truth comes out, she’s a flower incapable of protecting herself. But once the truth is revealed, when viewers go back and watch her scenes again, they should feel a chill run down their spine.”

Li Shan glanced at Ying Yin. “You two are family. There’s no need to talk around the subject in front of me.”

Shang Lu fell silent for a moment. “No.”

His answer was calm but unequivocal. “Ying Yin can’t carry this role.”

Though Ying Yin’s eyes were already slightly unfocused from the wine, she’d been listening attentively all along. Hearing the certainty in Shang Lu’s voice, she froze for a second, the emotion in her eyes stiffening.

“Why?” Li Shan asked on her behalf with impeccable courtesy.

“Because your film has taken too much out of her.” Shang Lu lifted his wineglass. “She needs to rest.”

He didn’t bother sparing Li Shan’s feelings.

“You’ve trained her according to the standards expected of an internationally acclaimed Best Actress. If that’s the benchmark you set, then you should understand my meaning better than anyone.”

As he finished speaking, he extended his arm and deliberately clinked glasses with Li Shan.

The crisp, crystalline chime rang through the room, its cool clarity only emphasizing the silence that followed.

It was Ying Yin who laughed first.

“What do you mean, ‘an internationally acclaimed Best Actress’?” she teased. “Cannes? They don’t like me. That’s already been proven.”

She counted them off one by one. “Berlin? Snow doesn’t really fit the kind of films Berlin has been favoring these past few years. Venice would actually be a much better match, but…”

She paused with a self-deprecating smile. “Last year the award went to Toda Riho from Japan. I don’t think Europeans are generous enough to leave the prize in East Asia two years in a row.”

There are, of course, many other internationally recognized A-list film festivals. But in terms of prestige and influence, none truly stand alongside the three great temples of arthouse cinema.

Of all the films Ying Yin had appeared in, Goodbye, Angela had brought her closest to that summit. The film won Chinese cinema its second Palme d’Or, crowned Ke Yu with the Best Actor award, and collected numerous technical prizes besides. Only Ying Yin, despite being the film’s leading actress, came away empty-handed.

That year, Li Shan had served on the Main Competition jury.

To this day, he had never revealed a single detail of the deliberations surrounding the Best Actress award. Hearing Ying Yin casually remark, “Cannes doesn’t like me,” he said nothing, but the fine lines on his face tightened almost imperceptibly.

It looked as though he wanted to speak.

In the end, he swallowed the words and simply turned his wineglass in silence.

The truth was that Cannes – from its selection of films to the judging process itself – was never as “objective” or “standardized” as outsiders imagined.

Especially when it came to the Main Competition’s top prizes, the final decisions were, at their core, the product of nine jurors arguing, negotiating, weighing compromises, and making concessions.

The jury president’s personality, each juror’s artistic taste, the influence they wielded, even their ability to persuade others – all of it could determine who ultimately walked away with the prize. There was an enormous element of contingency, of tug-of-war.

When Ying Yin failed to win, even Li Shan had been attacked by her fans, who blamed him for not fighting hard enough on her behalf.

He had never defended himself.

As the only Asian member of that year’s jury, he had been hopelessly outnumbered. On top of that, he and the jury president, Pierre, had a long-standing personal grudge. Securing both the Palme d’Or and the Best Actor award had already been the limit of what he could accomplish. But deep down, he had always regretted Ying Yin’s defeat.

“So why are you suddenly being so pessimistic?”

Shang Lu smiled, breaking the heavy stillness that had settled over the room. Resting an elbow on the table, he raised two fingers.

“What do you mean?” Ying Yin asked, looking at him.

“One guaranteed. Two to strive for.”

He met her gaze. “I’m talking about Best Actress trophies.”

A gust of wind drifted through the half-open window, sending an unexpected chill through the room.

“Since when did you think so highly of me?”

She smiled faintly, idly spinning the tiny pu’er teacup between her fingertips, looking as though she wasn’t taking the conversation particularly seriously.

The truth was, no major award existed in a vacuum.

Behind every trophy lurked politics and money.

An unassuming film might win the Palme d’Or because its global distributor happened to be the French powerhouse MK2. A fresh-faced, vibrant young actress might take home the Academy Award because tens of millions of dollars had been poured into her awards campaign.

Or, even when everything else was equal, something as intangible as differences in national politics or ideological outlook could make the road to recognition far more arduous for one filmmaker than for another.

Ever since Ying Yin had terminated her contract with Chenye Entertainment and chosen to strike out on her own, she had lost access to the industry’s largest source of financial backing.

Zhuang Tiwen was wealthy, certainly – but when faced with the enormous cost of awards campaigning and such uncertain returns, even she had to think twice before committing that kind of money.

Ying Yin accepted When Snow Melts It Turns Green for two reasons. First, she loved the story and welcomed the challenge. Second, she trusted that Li Shan was serious this time – that earning a place in the Main Competition should be well within reach.

As for Best Actress…

That was something to leave to fate.

“My eye for talent has never been wrong.”

Shang Lu tapped the tabletop with a finger, drawing Ying Yin’s wandering attention back to him. “From now on, you can start drafting your acceptance speech.”

Perhaps because so much weighed on her mind, Ying Yin felt the alcohol rush over her after only her second glass of red wine.

At first, she merely propped her head on one hand, her gaze turning hazy. Then her eyelids began to droop. Her head started bobbing, lower and lower.

Each time she was just about to pitch face-first onto the table, she would mysteriously snap awake for a single second, obediently glance at Shang Shao – as if trying to prove she definitely wasn’t drunk – and then the entire cycle would begin all over again.

No one could quite say when Shang Shao had gathered her into his arms.

Li Shan and Shang Lu both fell silent, their conversation naturally coming to a stop as they watched him.

The movement was so effortless, so unhurried, and so gentle.

Ying Yin cooperated without the slightest resistance.

The clean, steady scent of his cologne, faintly laced with tobacco, made her feel safe.

Resting her head against his shoulder, she still stubbornly mumbled, “…I still have one more glass…”

“No one’s going to steal it from you. You can have it after you wake up.”

Keeping one arm around her, Shang Shao lifted his other hand to cover her eyes, shielding them from the harsh lights.

The conversation gradually resumed, only much softer than before.

Half asleep, half awake, Ying Yin occasionally caught fragments of words –

“distribution”…

“theatrical release”…

“festival submission”…

Her brows knitted together.

Mr. Shang isn’t interested in any of that, she thought drowsily. He must be so bored listening to it.

She had no idea when the gathering ended.

When she woke again, Shang Shao was carrying her on his back.

The rain-soaked, snow-melted road had been churned into thick mud by horses’ hooves. She imagined his shoes and the hems of his trousers must already be filthy.

Above them, a black umbrella was held lazily overhead by Shang Lu.

The drizzle was so fine that it wove a soft, whispering patter across the umbrella’s canopy.

The slight movement as she stirred didn’t escape Shang Shao.

“Awake?”

He turned his face slightly toward her.

“The wine…”

It was still the only thing on her mind.

“What?”

“There’s still one glass left.”

She insisted stubbornly, trying her hardest to force her blurry eyes open.

Shang Shao: “…”

He looked over at Shang Lu.

Shang Lu refused instinctively. “Not a chance.”

Shang Shao changed direction without another word. “Come with me.”

“I’m sleepy!” Shang Lu protested.

“Hold the umbrella properly.”

Shang Lu: “…”

Too intimidated to argue, he could only vent his frustration by rattling the string of bodhi beads in his hand.

“Get my phone,” Shang Shao instructed. “Left pocket.”

Shang Lu did as he was told, pulled out the phone, and made the call.

Ying Yin was drifting off again.

Through the quiet night, she heard Shang Shao’s calm, measured voice.

“Please make another cup of mulled wine. Yes, it’s for Miss Ying. Half a cup will do.”

“One whole cup,” Ying Yin suddenly declared, jolting awake. “Not one drop less.”

Shang Shao: “…”

The person on the other end of the call had clearly heard her and was trying very hard not to laugh.

After a brief pause, they heard the eldest young master of the Shang family repeat patiently, “One whole cup.”

He sighed almost imperceptibly. “Not one drop less.”

When they arrived, after waiting for a little while, Ying Yin was rewarded with a cup of mulled wine filled right to the brim, spilling slightly over the edge.

Shang Shao sat beside her. Shang Lu stood leaning casually against the table. The chef remained farther away.

The three of them silently watched as she finished the entire drink.

By the time they set off back again, the drizzle had stopped.

Shang Lu folded away the umbrella. He clearly no longer wished to play the role of caretaker.

As he left, he gave a cold laugh, the corner of his lips twitching with a warning for his brother. “You’re finished. Don’t even think about sleeping tonight.”

Ying Yin was still awake.

The moment he left, she mumbled, “There was a hidden meaning in what he said.”

“What meaning?”

“He’s badmouthing me.”

Shang Shao let out a quiet laugh. “Seems you’re still quite sober.”

“Of course.” Ying Yin sounded extremely pleased with herself. “He doesn’t like me because he’s jealous of me.”

Faced with Shang Shao’s subtle, complicated silence, Ying Yin leaned closer to his ear and whispered mysteriously, “You’re not going to ask why?”

Shang Shao remained perfectly composed. “Why?”

“Because he thinks Mr. Ke likes me.”

She covered her lips, saying it in the most natural, matter-of-fact way – though she had completely reversed the meaning.

Shang Shao: “…”

“Do you know why?” Ying Yin continued, still covering her mouth and lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“Tell me.”

Still whispering, she said slowly, word by word. “Because I’m just too beautiful.”

Shang Shao was speechless for a moment.

After a long pause, he gave a low laugh. “Make sense.”

“What?”

“It makes sense.”

Ying Yin understood that he was admitting she was beautiful. Biting her lip, she laughed for a while, then tightened her arms around his neck. “Mr. Shang, Germany is so cold. Did you just finish your meeting?”

Her chin rested on his shoulder, tilting slightly as her blurred eyes caught sight of his profile.

So close.

Close enough to touch.

This kind of snow, this kind of moonlight, his coat, her drunkenness – if this wasn’t Germany, then where else could it be?

Shang Shao’s footsteps came to a stop.

When he started walking again, he answered with a natural, quiet “Mm.”

“Just finished a meeting.”

“When will you have time to play with me?”

“Tomorrow will do.”

“I’m so nervous.”

Her palms were damp with sweat.

“Nervous about what?”

“I get nervous whenever I’m alone with you. You’re like my dad – what if I make you unhappy? I can’t tell whether you’re happy or not.”

“Any version of me standing in front of you is happy.”

Ying Yin’s heart gave a loud thump. She pressed her face more tightly against his shoulder. “You’re very good at saying sweet things.”

“Maybe it’s because my honest words just happen to be the ones you like hearing.”

Ying Yin kept her eyes open. Reflected in her pupils was the snow glowing beneath the moonlight, a pure, innocent shade of white.

It took her a moment to process what he meant. That his feelings happened to be mutual. Her face slowly turned red.

“Mr. Shang.” After a while, she spoke again, murmuring his name. “If it weren’t for that hundred million… how would I have ever made you remember me?”

Shang Shao didn’t answer.

Ying Yin waited for a while, then promptly forgot she had asked the question.

She tilted her face upward, her breath turning into a cloud of white mist in the cold air. “Munich is so dark. There aren’t even any lights.”

The village was pitch-black.

Although it was only nine o’clock, it already counted as the dead of night here. The horses were tired, the sheep were sleepy, the cattle were weary. Humans and animals alike had fallen into slumber, leaving only the moon behind to light the way.

Shang Shao let out a quiet laugh and indulged her unreasonable thought. “Perhaps that’s why it is called Munich.”

“Make sense.” Ying Yin picked up the phrase quickly.

The corner of Shang Shao’s lips curved. “Little girl, are you actually drunk, or are you pretending?”

“Pretending.” Ying Yin answered with complete confidence. “Wow, Mr. Shang, you’re amazing. You know make sense – you can speak the language of SpongeBob.”

Shang Shao: “…”

He had never imagined that she could somehow twist the conversation around even this.

SpongeBob seemed to be Ying Yin’s switch for sobriety. The moment she heard it mentioned, she became animated, waving her hands excitedly. “Quick, quick, quick! Let’s go catch jellyfish!”

Shang Shao had no choice but to steady her. “Hold still. Don’t move around.”

“I’m a Best Actress. I don’t have to listen.”

Before Shang Shao could respond, she suddenly drooped and began silently shedding tears. “What use is that, though? I won the two major awards, but I still haven’t made it beyond this country. I’m a fake Best Actress.”

She began belittling herself, entering the inevitable stage of drunken emotional collapse.

“Maybe next year you’ll become a real Best Actress.”

“You call me Yingying.”

“Yingying.”

“The moon waxes, then wanes. When water fills to the brim, it spills over…” She rested against his shoulder, her words coming in broken fragments. “People need to know when enough is enough… to restrain their sharp edges… that’s called allowing yourself to succeed…”

It was as though the words had been carved into her very bones. Even drunk, she recited them without missing a single character.

Shang Shao had thought he would never hear those words again. Then, suddenly hearing her recite them, he fell silent for a moment, his breath pressing down on the dull ache that struck him without warning.

“Ying Yin.”

“Mm.”

“Forget those words.”

“Then the prophecy will come true.”

This was something Ying Fan had taught her.

Ying Fan knew many masters of divination and was deeply devout. She lit lamps for her, copied Buddhist scriptures for her, and squeezed through crowds on New Year’s Day just to offer the first incense of the year, praying to the Buddha and the bodhisattvas to bless her with lasting fame.

Whatever the fortune tellers said, Ying Fan believed with absolute conviction and followed with absolute dedication.

If they said to remove a mole, she removed it. If they said to donate merit, she donated. And she always told Ying Yin never to go against such things.

“No.” Shang Shao paused, then said lightly, “No one can calculate your fate. I want you to always be full and abundant.”

Ying Yin blinked at him in confusion, not knowing whether she understood, or whether she would remember.

After they entered the room, the clarity in her eyes lasted only a second. Then she leaned against him, asking for a kiss.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was still thinking: Why are hotels in Germany so poorly equipped?

But poor conditions did not stop her from inviting Shang Shao to watch SpongeBob SquarePants with her.

With practiced ease, she opened one of her favorite movie versions.

She could recite every line from beginning to end, performing each one with vivid expression. But she felt that the person watching with her today was not paying enough attention.

He kept kissing her, until a fine layer of sweat covered her back.

After a while, she could no longer hold the phone steadily.

As it slipped from her palm into the blankets, a hand that had been working hard freed itself, covered the screen, and a damp fingertip pressed the lock button on the side.

The room instantly fell silent.

The only sound left was the soft, wet sound of their kisses.

Ying Yin came to a little more, only to feel that her legs were unbearably slick and damp. She had no idea why her reaction had been so intense. Unable to endure it, she gripped Shang Shao’s back, feeling the muscles tense and swell beneath her touch with his movements. Her face flushed, her breathing short and broken, her voice carrying a trace of tears.

Later, he asked her some strange questions.

She heard a name that absolutely should never have been mentioned in bed.

For example: “I heard you like Ke Yu’s body.”

The moment she heard Ke Yu’s name, even in the depths of drunkenness, Ying Yin’s pupils suddenly widened.

And that only drew an even more intense and relentless investigation from Shang Shao. “Why such a strong reaction?”

His voice was hoarse, yet calm.

When he asked, his eyes were not narrowed. His gaze remained fixed on her from above. He held down Ying Yin’s hand and made her press it against his face, which was damp with sweat from the exertion.

Ying Yin thought he was being completely unreasonable. She began to cry, pushing against his shoulder. “I don’t even know what you’re asking about… mm…”

“Isn’t it that you like Ke Yu? That you think everything about Ke Yu is good?”

A man who was busy with countless affairs every day had deliberately logged onto Weibo that afternoon and searched for the CP between her and Ke Yu.

It was called “Silver Fish Fairy Tale”, and the CP supertopic had more than two hundred thousand followers.

Shang Shao spent the time it took to smoke a cigarette scrolling through it.

Somewhere along the way, he forgot to smoke at all. The cigarette remained pinched between his fingers, while his lowered eyes revealed no light.

Those carefully compiled posts were filled with photos of their eye contact and moments standing together.

They looked frighteningly convincing.

In truth, his question was not really a question.

Clearly, he did not need her answer. He only wanted to punish her.

But Ying Yin was too innocent. After drinking, she always started making up stories about other people, and then accidentally revealed her own true feelings.

So she admitted it.

She said things like how Mr. Ke really did have a good physique, how he exercised every day, how his legs were very long, and how his waist was very slim – complete nonsense.

After saying those things, her waist, her legs, every inch of her skin, every bone and tendon in her body, no longer belonged to her.

The soreness, the numbness, the weakness – all of it became something to be toyed with beneath his hands.

The entire night.

In a daze, even when her waist had gone weak and limp, he still pulled her upright, letting her back rest against his chest.

Shang Shao held her in his arms with one hand. With the other, he held her neck, forcing her face upward so he could clearly see the scattered haze in her pupils and the pleasure reflected there.

He had lost control somewhat.

So much so that, pressed close to her ear, he asked with complete clarity and single-minded seriousness, “Who do you want to spend your whole life with?”

By the evening of the following day, the most important wrap-up scene had arrived.

The entire crew had prepared flowers and arranged the celebratory meal. Everyone had been happily cleared out of the set by Li Shan, waiting only for the Best Actress’s final take.

The camera began rolling.

Ying Yin untied her robe.

The collar slipped down her shoulder…

The few people who needed to remain on set all fell silent.

Two seconds later, Li Shan’s furious roar echoed through the entire studio. “Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut! Makeup and styling! Get over here! Put two pounds of powder on her!”

Ying Yin turned her head, only seeing the director’s clapperboard dangling and swinging wildly in the air.

She didn’t understand.

It was only when she looked into the mirror that she suddenly realized.

Her face turned completely red.

Those marks were an almost wicked shade of crimson.

All of them were Shang Shao’s doing.